


the deep and dazzling dark

by stickmarionette



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Cannibalism, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Manipulation, Family Dynamics, M/M, Murder, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Psychological Trauma, Stockholm Syndrome
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-28
Updated: 2015-08-05
Packaged: 2018-02-22 23:53:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2526290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stickmarionette/pseuds/stickmarionette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"Will. Good of you to join us. Doctor Lecter, Agent Will Graham. He's on loan to us from the crisis negotiation unit." Crawford's tone was warm, even as he pronounced the name of the other unit with irritation. He clearly thought a lot of Graham, which made Hannibal take a second, more careful look.</i>
</p><p>Hannibal is still Hannibal. Will is an anomaly. (A season one AU.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hannibal

 

 

> There is in God, some say,
> 
> A deep but dazzling darkness
> 
> \- The Night, Henry Vaughan

 

The experience of waking was not pleasant. Various bone-deep aches and pains made themselves known, although Hannibal noted, surprised, that the superficial wounds had been cleaned and bandaged with some degree of expertise. He was strapped down securely to a cold surface. From the position of the restraints -

It was the ambulatory surgical gurney in his cellar.

The rest of the evening's events returned to the forefront of his mind in an uncomfortable flash.

"That was quick."

His control over his breathing must have slipped, in that brief moment of shock. Unfortunate, but there was no point in pretending any longer. Hannibal opened his eyes to a novel view of the cellar.

"Will?"

"I'm here," Will Graham answered in a voice stripped of all inflection.

Hannibal turned his head in the direction of the voice and watched as Will wandered slowly closer. His steps were silent, light as a dancer's.

"Is this really necessary? Whatever I've done to anger you - "

There had been no indication that Will was closing in on the truth - he saw the Ripper with absolute clarity, but something had so far seemed to prevent him taking the final step. Hannibal was perturbed by the possibility that he had somehow slipped up.

Will gave him the same sweet smile he'd had on when they discussed his sister. "No, it's not like that. We just need to talk."

 

* * *

_some time ago_

 

* * *

 

"I do when I'm in your company, Doctor. I'd like you to help me with a psychological profile."

 

The photos of wind-swept girls, all drawn from the same palette, coalesced into the outline of their killer. Hannibal felt the first stirrings of distaste. Here, clearly, was a man so underdeveloped that he didn't know how to let go, only that he had to consume something alike to fill the void, never able to sate himself.

Unusual, but banal and pathetic in his own way. Far more interesting was the question of why he'd been asked to come on board. Jack Crawford had made a positive first impression - the head of the Behavioral Science Unit had been all flattery and friendliness, all the while playing his cards very close to his chest. If Hannibal found the work interesting enough to continue this relationship, he'd have to be careful around the man.

Someone who took so much care in making sure they were underestimated was clearly dangerous.

"Indulge my curiosity, Jack. Is there a particular reason you approached me today?"

For perhaps the first time in their brief acquaintance, Jack looked as tired as he must have felt. He flipped open the file on his desk and passed Hannibal the photo on top. "Diana Snyder. Number nine. Found this morning in a field in Minneapolis."

The sheer brutal beauty of it stole his breath. He had to work to keep his voice bland. "A striking image."

More than striking, actually - it was art, the kind of composition he might have favoured.

"Same profile as all the others, except for one anomaly. This one had a criminal record. DUI hit and run, victim was paralysed. She got off with a slap on the wrist."

A revenge killing, perhaps, disguised as the work of their serial killer. Except something about that didn't ring true. Hannibal flicked through the preliminary reports. No, there was far too much confidence and precision here for it to be the work of a first-time opportunist.

The one who had impaled the girl on the antlers did not feel possessive about her. It was hard to tell what he felt, which was rare enough for Hannibal that his curiosity was piqued further.

Perhaps this was a commentary on the other killings by an interloper. Which raised some interesting questions about the identity and intentions of this copycat.

"Were there any trophies taken?"

"The liver. Carefully, if not surgically removed," Jack said. He went up to the board with the pictures of the other girls and added the ninth head shot, hammering the pin in with far more force than it needed. His voice remained civil and business-like. "Minneapolis homicide have already given him a nickname. The Minnesota Shrike."

It was almost too appropriate. Hannibal suppressed a smile as he stood and approached the board. When placed next to the other eight, Snyder's head shot stood out like a sore thumb. Everything about her smelled of money.

"Have you considered the idea that this might be a different killer?"

"I suggested the idea. But I don't think Jack's very receptive."

The new voice belonged to a neatly attired man of indeterminate age who strode into the office without a trace of hesitation. He stopped before the board, just short of what Hannibal would have considered an invasion of personal space.

"Will. Good of you to join us. Doctor Lecter, Agent Will Graham. He's on loan to us from the crisis negotiation unit." Crawford's tone was warm, even as he pronounced the name of the other unit with irritation. He clearly thought a lot of Graham, which made Hannibal take a second, more careful look. "This is Doctor Hannibal Lecter. He's kindly agreed to help us with the Shrike's psychological profile."

Agent Graham shook hands carelessly, without a hint a of posturing. He had handsome features that probably inspired trust in most people, and clear, piercing eyes that met Hannibal's head on.

When he smiled, it didn't reach those eyes. "Glad to hear it. This is a different breed of criminal than I'm used to."

"Nonsense. Will was one of our best profilers under my predecessor."

Flattery again? No. Crawford wasn't the type to give out undeserved compliments. His comments were purposeful, but sincere. "What made you stop?"

"I was wrong one too many times. Half my team died for it. Now I sit behind a desk and write reports, and no one's died of that yet."

Blunt, but fundamentally honest. A good answer.

"He's being wasted there." But not good enough for Crawford, the fisher of men, forever looking to maximise his resources. Hannibal respected the attempt, even as he doubted its prospects. Graham didn't seem like the type who could be swayed. "You'd save more lives with the BAU, Will."

"Let's park that argument."

"Just consider it after we catch this one."

"You're so confident?" Hannibal asked. Jack didn't look like a man anticipating success, at least to someone who knew where to look.

"He's right to be. This guy's going to get caught, and he knows it." Something about Graham's eyes changed between one blink and the next as he stared at the wall of victims. It was so quick and subtle that most people wouldn't have noticed. Hannibal had caught it by chance. Just for a moment, Graham had gone somewhere else. There was no hint of it left by the time his gaze landed on Hannibal. "What would you do, Doctor? If you were this madman, consumed by his needs, worried about the law catching up…"

Hannibal had the feeling he was being measured. For what, he wasn't sure. Best to tread carefully in front of Quantico's best and brightest.

"Not this. This young woman's killer had no desire to possess her. The others come from a very different place."

Obvious enough, but a good hook for a competent analyst to latch onto.

Graham nodded. "Yes. I think he has a daughter, Jack. Maybe one who's leaving home. She'd be the mould."

It was startling to hear his thoughts spoken out loud. Graham was more than competent.

"Doctor Lecter?"

"I agree with Agent Graham."

"Will, please. What's he doing with the organs?"

"Not leaving them around for you to find," Hannibal said.

"He feels possessive of these girls. You don't think…?"

"It's possible."

Crawford looked from one of them to the other with mounting exasperation. "One of you spit it out."

Hannibal had almost forgotten about their audience. He was clearly in danger of enjoying himself too much.

"He could be keeping the organs to consume them. It would fit with what Will hypothesised about this Shrike's motivations."

"Then we're in more trouble than I thought," Crawford said heavily. "Okay, we've narrowed it down further, that's good. Will, I want you visiting the construction sites as soon as you can get away. Here's the list we've got so far. Doctor Lecter, would you mind accompanying him tomorrow? I'm stuck in court."

Hannibal finally let himself smile. "It would be my pleasure."

 

*

 

Special Agent Will Graham, formerly a homicide detective in New Orleans, a forensics specialist for the FBI crime lab and the author of the standard monograph on time of death by insect activity. Recipient of a commendation for his work with the Behavioral Science Unit three years ago, though the details were classified.

On paper, an exemplary member of the law enforcement community. Not particularly interesting.

When Hannibal played back their encounter, he heard a dissonant note, like a record needle catching on scratched vinyl, right when their eyes met.

Interesting.

 

*

 

"Good morning, Will. May I come in?"

"I'm not dressed," Will muttered as he rubbed sleep from his eyes, blinking blearily into the light. What Hannibal could see of him was clad in thin, clinging cotton.

"I promise not to be offended," Hannibal said in a suitably solicitous voice. "May I come in?"

Will smiled. "Please."

 

"It's delicious, thank you."

"My pleasure."

 

 

The food was, in part, a test.

When Will began eating without hesitation, he wasn't sure whether to be disappointed or relieved. It would be safe enough to begin restocking his pantry, after all.

In the cold light of the new day, Hannibal was finding it difficult to detect any traces of what had made Will stand out in the first place. He seemed perfectly pleasant, if a little distant. Almost dull.

"I'm surprised you agreed to come with me today."

"I wanted a peek behind the curtain. Curious how the FBI goes about its business when it isn't kicking in doors."

"Be glad we're not doing house-to-house interviews."

"Why construction companies?"

"We found a little piece of metal in the clothes Elise Nichols had on. A shred from a pipe threader. Jack's team narrowed it down for us."

"And what are we looking for?"

"A needle in a haystack. Jack knows what I can do, and what I can't. He's not expecting miracles." Will's smile turned rueful. "I'm sorry, Doctor Lecter. I'm sure you have better things to do."

"Two sets of eyes are better than one," Hannibal said amicably.

Perhaps a different kind of test was required, should the right circumstances present themselves.

 

"They know."

 

Even the banal and pathetic could be surprising, Hannibal thought, as Garret Jacob Hobbs shut the door to his home.

On the porch, Will knelt down beside the bleeding, thrashing woman. His face might have been carved from marble. As she struggled for air, he clasped her hand very briefly, and got back up without a word.

It was a shame Hannibal couldn't see his eyes properly.

Without a backwards glance, Will drew his weapon, kicked the door down and strode inside the house, still silent.

The woman was already dead by the time Hannibal reached the porch. Her throat had been cut inexpertly, but the sheer brutality of the attack had done its job.

A high scream, then gun shots, three in quick succession.

"Doctor Lecter!" Will's voice, raised but even. "I need a hand."

The sight that greeted him in the Hobbs' kitchen awoke a strange cocktail of responses in Hannibal, not all of them welcome. In hindsight, he should have expected Hobbs to react like this.

It was a pity about the girl.

Hobbs was twitching on the floor, the top of his head a bloody, bullet-ridden mess. He finally stopped moving as Hannibal knelt down beside Will, who was trying inexpertly to stem the bleeding from the girl's neck. He made way for Hannibal with gratifying speed.

"You acted fast. She'll live."

A little further, and Hobbs would have hit an artery. There had been no finesse in the act - it was more likely, judging from the wound, that he'd hacked at her with his last breath.

"That's - that's good," Will murmured, in a thin thread of a voice. A flash of terrible longing disturbed the studied, frozen calm of his face as he looked into the girl's glassy eyes, her hand clasped tightly in his, like a ripple on the surface of a deep, dark lake. There and gone in the space of a blink.

He had shot to kill with no warning. Probably acceptable behaviour given the situation, even impressive as a display of coolness under pressure. Hannibal could see the lines of the official report, and the commendation that would surely, once again, follow.

_He picked Hobbs' name out of nothing._

The words echoed in the well of his mind as if Will had spoken them out loud, and sunk beneath the surface like a stone into a pond.

_His first instinct had been to kill._

Inconclusive, but intriguing.

 

 

 

(to be continued)


	2. Alana

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Will is ambushed.

_EXCLUSIVE! BACK ON THE HUNT: FBI AGENT STABBED IN WOOD/CARSON FIASCO GUNS DOWN THE SHRIKE_

_Tattle Crime has learned that the FBI agent who took down Garret Jacob Hobbs, the killer known as the Minnesota Shrike, was none other than Will Graham, one of the few survivors of the botched FBI operation to capture Gwyneth Wood and Katherine Carson three years ago. Press coverage of that fiasco, including by this blog, led to a complete reorganisation of the Behavioral Science Unit and the appointment of current agent in charge, Jack Crawford._

_After recovering from the serious injuries sustained in his life-or-death struggle with Carson, Graham resigned his post and began working for another unit in an advisory capacity. It is now clear that the mystery of the Shrike drove Crawford to seek Graham's expertise._

_Wood and Carson gruesomely tortured and killed 6 young men and displayed their corpses..._

_[Over the course of the next few weeks, Tattle Crime will be reposting our exclusive coverage of the Angels of Death case. We are also seeking legal advice as to compelling content we were barred from publishing at the time.]_

  
*

Will Graham had somehow managed the remarkable feat of leaving no impression whatsoever on an office he'd been occupying for three years. The only remotely personal item visible was a framed photo of a younger Will being hugged by a beaming Latino woman, both in police uniforms.

"Nice office," Alana said as she strode up to the otherwise featureless desk.

Will looked up from his paperwork and smiled at the sight of her. "I know you don't mean that. It's good to see you, Alana."

"How are you, Will?"

"I'm as okay as I can be expected to be."

"That may change. I didn't want you to be ambushed - "

Will looked amused. "Is this an ambush?"

"Ambush is later. Immediately later, soon to now," Alana said quickly. She could hear heavy footsteps. "When Jack arrives consider yourself ambushed."

Right on cue, Jack stepped up beside her. Alana considered the optics of the two of them looming over the seated Will and looked around for chairs. She was resigned but unsurprised to find that there were none, and that Will noticed her looking. He caught her eye and grinned.

"Hello, Jack."

"How's the paperwork?"

"Deadly dull. How was your meeting?"

Jack's mouth twitched into something that was almost a grin. "Congratulations, you're up for another commendation. And you're back at the BAU, effective immediately. Start packing."

"Only if you want it," Alana added firmly. "You can say no."

To Jack's credit, he didn't try to object. "You'd be working directly under me. I'm no Petersen, Will, you know that. I won't let it happen again."

The room seemed to drop a few degrees in temperature at the mention of Petersen's name. Will's eyes flicked to the screen of his laptop.

"I guess you saw Tattle Crime."

"It was pointed out to me this morning." Jack's keen eyes narrowed. "You have history with Freddie Lounds, don't you?"

"She snuck into my hospital room and took some embarrassing pictures when I was laid up with the knife wound." Will said it as if he was relating a funny story that had happened to someone else. His smile acquired a bitter twist. "On the plus side, she never called me any names during the Wood/Carson investigation."

"Because she was too busy trashing Petersen," Jack said irritably.

"Not to speak ill of the dead, but for once her wild accusations did have some basis in fact."

The Wood/Carson fiasco happened before Alana began consulting with the BAU. The first thing she did for them was serving as the psychiatry expert appointed to the review board that picked over the carcass of the investigation. At certain times, she'd been sorely tempted to provide a few choice quotes to the press herself. Both for the sake of the dead, and for those living with the fallout.

Will was one of the sanest people she knew. But sometimes, Alana thought she could still see shadows in his eyes from those days.

"Some," Jack ground out. "If I ever find out who her source was…"

"It's in the past," Will said quietly. "What happens if I say yes, Jack?"

"You get out of paperwork hell and go straight back into the field." Jack paused, almost apologetically. "After a psych eval."

Will chuckled. "There's the catch. Are we starting now?"

"Session wouldn't be with me," Alana said hurriedly.

"Hannibal Lecter might be a better fit. Your relationship's not as personal. But if you'd be more comfortable with Doctor Bloom - "

"No, no. Doctor Lecter's fine. Are you honestly worried about me?"

Jack broke into a small but genuine smile. "Petersen let you down. I told myself it wasn't going to happen again. I need to know that's true."

Will stared up at him steadily for a long moment. "Okay, Jack."

"Let me know when you've got the results. Thank you, Alana."

With that, Jack turned and left as abruptly as he had appeared, and the set of Will's shoulders changed. She hadn't even noticed him tensing up earlier.

"Sorry, um. You can sit on the desk if you want," he said, gesturing to a pristine corner of it. "Having chairs encourages people to stay and chat."

Alana found herself smiling as she sat. "Should I take that as encouragement?"

"Please do. Did you want a drink?" Will began opening and shutting drawers with a dissatisfied frown. "I've got...whiskey and more whiskey. It's a good one, at least," he said, holding up the mostly full bottle of Highland Park.

"No, thank you. Drinking at work?"

Will raised his eyebrows. "It's sociable to offer. Isn't it?"

"Generally speaking, yes," she said teasingly.

"I can be sociable."

"Don't make yourself uncomfortable on my account." Inwardly, Alana marvelled at his resilience, so soon after a traumatic deadly force encounter. The thought sobered her. "The nurses tell me you've been to see Abigail Hobbs."

"Just for my peace of mind."

"You saved her life. Remember that."

"For what? That's what I'm wondering. You know what she'll be facing. Jack suspects her already."

It was in Jack's nature - and in the nature of his job - to be suspicious. Alana reserved judgment until she could assess the person.

"Did he say something to you?"

"We went out to this hunting cabin Hobbs owned. Just wrap-up, he said," Will said dryly, shaking his head. "Good old Jack."

Will's phrasing brought a niggling thought to the forefront.

"Why did you tell him you didn't want to be evaluated by me? If you don't mind me asking."

Will ducked his head, but not before she could see his lips curve up at the corners. "No, no. It's not you, it's me. I'm attracted to you."

"And that's a problem for you?" Alana asked, aiming for gently teasing. In truth, she was both flattered and struck by his directness. And more than a little tempted.

"In a professional context, it is. Being in a relationship would be bad for me right now. I know that. Better for both of us if I don't bother you with it."

With some effort, Alana stomped down the sliver of regret that ran through her. It was exactly the kind of decision she always told herself to make, so she should applaud it.

"That's...very mature, Will. I'm impressed. But you really don't need to make yourself scarce on my account. I don't mind."

Will's smile this time was radiant. "Thank you. It'll be harder to avoid you now that I'm working for Jack, anyway."

It belatedly occurred to Alana how rare this conversation was.

"We haven't ever been alone in a room together. Even at Georgetown."

"I thought I was more subtle than that," Will said ruefully.

"You were. I should have introduced you to Hannibal before. You're both very good at delicately side-stepping conversations."

"That's right, you suggested him to Jack. How do you know each other?"

"He mentored me at Johns Hopkins."

Will tilted his head, considering. "On balance, I'm flattered by the comparison."

"You like him," Alana said, delighted.

"Don't sound so surprised."

"Oh no, he's very likeable. You just don't strike me as the trusting type."

His stare became uncomfortably piercing. For the briefest of moments, she had the distinct sense that she'd said something wrong, before whatever lurked in his eyes melted into profound amusement.

"I'm not. He made a good first impression."


	3. Hannibal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Hannibal finds a few more pieces of the puzzle.

Will Graham was in his office.

Hannibal felt an odd thrill, watching Will inspect his space with the air of someone looking for potential weapons and exits under the cover of aesthetic admiration. The lines of his profile as he looked up at the loft made Hannibal's hands crave pencil and paper. And a scalpel, when he was done, to peel away the layers, like opening a beautifully packaged gift.

It wasn't often that Hannibal felt anything he hadn't chosen; even rarer for the emotion to be inexplicable in any way. That alone made the mystery of Will Graham a dangerous one.

Circuit of the office done, Will finally settled on the edge of Hannibal's desk. Presumptive of him, and yet Hannibal utterly failed to be piqued by it. His presence felt more like a fact than an invasion.

"What's this?"

"Your psychological evaluation. You're totally functional and more or less sane. Well done."

"Did you just rubber stamp me?"

"Of course not. As far as I can tell, you absorbed the traumatic experience exceptionally well and you're coping admirably."

"Shared traumatic experience. You were there too." Will paused, as if surprised by his own abruptness, and rubbed at his forehead with a sigh. When he spoke again, his tone was far more conciliatory. "Been to see Abigail Hobbs lately?"

"Yes. Just as you have, I think. You orphaned her and almost certainly saved her life with the same decision. That moment carries emotional obligations."

"You saved her life too," Will said flatly. "Do you feel obligated?"

He'd overstepped by mentioning Will's decision to shoot Hobbs. Fortunately, the damage was easily repaired.

"I feel a staggering amount of obligation. I feel responsibility. I've fantasised about scenarios where my actions may have allowed a different fate for Abigail Hobbs."

Will leaned forward, drawn by his words. "Jack thinks it might have stirred up bad memories for me, what happened with Hobbs."

"Did it?"

"Doesn't matter. Jack went over my head. I'm on loan to the BAU until further notice." Will's smile acquired a mocking twist. "If you think I'm up to it."

"What was the nature of your work with the crisis negotiation team?"

"Behavioral analysis. We have trouble keeping psychiatric consultants, and I've got forensics, criminology and a law enforcement background."

He would have looked terrifyingly young in a police uniform.

"Did you enjoy it?"

"It was good for me," Will muttered after a short pause, almost embarrassed. Clearly, he understood just fine.

Hannibal smiled. "You could have refused to work for Jack. The fact that you did not leads me to think that you're not so reluctant."

"Jack's right about one thing - I'd save more people at the BAU." Will robbed at his forehead again. That was more than a reflexive stress reaction. He was ill.

"Are you not feeling well?"

"Headache," Will said dismissively. "I've got aspirin."

"Perhaps you should see a doctor."

"I am seeing one right now."

"I no longer practice medicine."

"Except in red-letter emergencies," Will said, with what could only be genuine appreciation. It threw Hannibal, enough that he parked the decision of whether to persist in that line of inquiry. There were too many variables, at present. He needed more information. "Doctor Lecter, what exactly did Jack say to you?"

"He wanted to be reassured that it was safe to put you back in the field."

Will raised his eyebrows. "And?"

"He asked if I would continue seeing you, on an informal basis."

"So he can keep an eye on me."

"Regardless of what Jack wants out of this arrangement, my primary responsibility would to be you," Hannibal said carefully.

"As what?"

"Support. Whatever you need."

"Nice of you. I didn't think you found me that interesting."

"I'm beginning to suspect you prefer it that way."

The smile that carved its way across Will's face was unlike any he'd seen before, and exposed all the others as the passionless fakes they were. "Have you got a late evening time slot? Friday?"

He looked up at Hannibal through his lashes, pleased, almost coy, sure of the answer.

"It's entirely possible."

*  

As he drove home, Hannibal considered the meal he was going to cook for Jack Crawford. The beginning of a new relationship, with all its attendant possibilities, required something special. Fresh ingredients.

Not a display - it wasn't quite time for the Ripper to reemerge, after all - but something simple, barely noticeable among the common homicides and disappearances.

Loin, perhaps. With a cumberland sauce - just a splash of red.  


"Next time bring your wife. I'd love to have you both for dinner."

 

Jack Crawford was a good dinner guest, the rare person who had no compunctions about showing both respect and enthusiastic appreciation for the food. Not to mention the conversation.

"I'm curious how you got Will to agree to more sessions. He's not exactly the most forthcoming person."

Hannibal had his own suspicions, best kept unvoiced for now.

"We shared a traumatic experience. That's as good a starting point as any."

Jack fixed him with a hard stare, shaking his head with grim amusement when Hannibal only smiled and kept cutting his slice of loin. "Now I understand why Doctor Bloom recommended you."

"The care you're taking with Will is commendable. But it does make me wonder. Do you not trust him?"

"I don't know how much you know about the mess three years ago."

"Only what's been in the press."

Jack took an appreciative sip of his wine and sighed deeply. "Half that team died because Will's old boss didn't trust his judgement. If you saw the reports from the scene, you'd do whatever it took to prevent a repeat too."

"I take it Will was badly wounded."

"He pulled out the knife in his shoulder and nailed Carson to the wall with it. That's probably the only reason anybody from that team is still alive. Will's the only one still in the FBI."

There was clearly more to the story than that, which opened up the possibility of being able to play Will and Jack off against each other, should the need arise. He'd have to find out more.

*

Will was five minutes early for his appointment.

Up close, he looked even more haggard than earlier, pale underneath the neatly trimmed stubble. He was still wearing the FBI uniform jacket, which he took off, folded, and laid neatly on the sofa.

"Have you been sleeping well?"

That earned him the penetrating look he was coming to expect. "No. Not really. Weird dreams."

"Please, have a seat." Hannibal had the distinct impression that Will was amused by this, though nothing changed on his face and he sat without protest. "Perhaps it's the stress of a new role, one in which you previously experienced trauma."

"Maybe. I may never eat mushrooms again."

Their eyes met, and Hannibal allowed himself a chuckle at the amused glint in Will's. "That would be a pity. How is Mr Stammets?"

"Comatose. He probably won't make it. Jack's not happy."

Will said it with admirable serenity, as if he was commenting on the weather, and not the eventful capture of a serial killer.

"Because you used excessive force?"

"Hospitalising a suspected felon leads to extra paperwork. There's no issue of excessive force." Will rubbed at his right arm. "His shot grazed me, or I would have gotten him in the shoulder instead."

Hannibal made sure his tone was perfectly even. "You didn't mean to kill him."

"Hard to say," Will said, just as evenly. "I wasn't thinking about him at the time."

"But you have been thinking about his particular pathology. What did he want?"

"I'm not sure."

"But you can guess." Hannibal leaned forward. His voice became quieter, as if they were exchanging secrets. "The structure of a fungus mirrors that of a human brain. An intricate web of connections."

Will nodded. "Searching for connections. Aren't we all?"

There it was again, that dissonant note. A glimpse of the true mystery coiled inside that appealing disguise, watching and waiting. For what?

"How did you connect to Mr Stammets?"

"Forensics and good police work. Jack runs a tight ship. We figured out all the victims were diabetics, and it's a short hop from there to a doctor or a pharmacist."

"I fear you're being falsely modest."

Will shrugged. "I made a guess. The hair and fibre analyst suggested pharmacist. it was just grunt work from there."

"What about Hobbs?"

"You tell me, Doctor. You were there." Will said the last three words with peculiar emphasis, almost as if - no. There was no way for him to know who had made the call.

"I observed but I did not see."

"Dumb luck and bad bookkeeping. That's all. I've been wrong plenty of times."

The more Will insisted on his fallibility, the more Hannibal believed there was more to him. Put that together with what Jack had said, and he was one step closer to seeing the full picture.

"Jack Crawford doesn't think that."

"Jack thinks I have some sort of gift," Will said lightly. "He's going to be disappointed."

 

 

(to be continued)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here's where we start diverging wildly from the show.


	4. Abigail

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Abigail weaves a tangled web.

"Probably says something about you."

"Probably does."

 

 

After Dr Bloom left, Abigail fell into an uneasy sleep.

Her dreams were no less haunted now that she had certainty. She saw her mother's lifeless body going up in flames and spluttered awake, still choking on the smoke. 

The first breath of clean air was a relief. Then she realised two things at once: it was getting dark outside and there was a man seated in a chair against the wall.

"Oh my God."

The man put his book down and smiled. "Hello, Abigail. Do you recognise me?"

At first, she didn't, and her fingers tightened around the panic button she had hidden under the sheets.

It came to her with a violence that froze her to the spot - her mother's screams, her father clutching her close and whispering nonsense into her ear, the knife at her throat. The man who strode silently into the room, met her eyes and pulled the trigger without a single moment of hesitation.

She remembered wanting to hide from his gaze even then.

Abigail swallowed until she could speak. "You killed my dad."

He nodded, solemn. "Did Alana tell you about that?"

"A bit."

"My name is Will Graham. I'm an FBI agent. Do you want to see my ID to make sure?"

"Yeah, okay."

He stood and took slow, careful steps forward, watching her face, holding it up in front of him until he was close enough to hand it to her. He wasn't wearing the FBI jacket this time. Dark suit, checked shirt, no tie, neatly shaved stubble. Up close he looked like one of her teachers. But, she thought with a private laugh, a cute one the girls would titter over at lunch breaks.

She found it hard to remember what about his face had so disturbed her, that first time.

Will Graham's hand was warm when it brushed hers. He'd shaved for the ID photo, which made him look barely old enough to drink, let alone be someone with the title of Senior Special Agent.

"What are you doing here, Mr Graham? I thought I wasn't allowed any visitors."

"Will, please. I wanted to see you. I'll leave if you want me to."

She could read the sincerity of the offer in his face, as well as his reluctance. He clearly wanted something from her. That was useful. Maybe -

"No, wait."

"Yes?"

"You could have killed me. When you shot my dad." The words that came out of her weren't the ones she wanted. They flowed like water out of a burst dam, and she was powerless to stop them. "I was struggling. What if you missed?"

He met her gaze head-on. "Then I'd feel terrible. But it was the only thing I could do in the moment to save your life, so I'm not going to apologise for it."

His frankness appealed to her. "You can sit down, if you want."

"Thank you," Will said. He flashed her another tentative smile as he dragged the chair up to her bedside and sat. "You have questions."

She nodded.

"Ask. I'll tell you what you need to know."

Abigail thought she'd have a torrent of them, ready to pour forth as soon as she could really talk to someone. Instead, her mind drew a total blank, shying away from any consideration of the last day she remembered. Her eyes seized, instead, on the ID card Will was tucking away.

"Why'd you become an FBI agent?"

"I was curious whether I could do it."

Abigail raised her eyebrows. "Most people wouldn't admit that."

"Really? The only reason you asked me to stay is that I spoke to you bluntly. Which indicates to me that you respond well to plain honesty."

"Most people wouldn't say that, either."

"I'm not most people," Will said, with just a hint of amusement underlying the quiet reserve.

That spark of amusement made it possible for her to keep going down darker alleys. "Dr Bloom didn't want to say - were you the one who caught my dad? How'd you do it?"

"I followed a few hunches and got lucky."

"That easy?"

If it was that easy, why had he killed so many before they caught up to him?

"People like your dad fundamentally want to be caught. The only question is who they take down with them," Will said, and looked straight at her, no longer good-humoured, sharp as a hunting knife.

Abigail's mouth went dry. "W-what do you mean?"

Will leaned closer and lowered his voice, as if he was confiding a secret. "I checked - your dad bought two tickets for the train Elise Nichols was on. If I kept digging, do you think it's possible that I'd find more travel and accommodation bookings for two?"

It wasn't really a question, even though he'd carefully phrased it as one.

Abigail's vision wavered for a second. She dug her nails into her thighs under the sheet and told herself to pull it together, fight past the fear turning everything to white noise. Think of a response.

The silence dragged on for what felt like an eternity while Will looked at her patiently, waiting.

She'd been dreading this moment for a long time, even as she tried to forget the possibility. Her well-calibrated survival instincts eventually seized on the one thing that still protected her.

"That doesn't prove anything.  I didn't know what my dad was doing."

She thought she'd passed when Will leaned forward and took her hand. Then something about his face changed, like a mask peeling off, and she had to fight the urge to snatch it back.

"There'll be people who want to talk to you about that. Think about what your answer should be. Don't be caught out."

Abigail swallowed back the first few responses that came to mind. "Why are you trying to help me?"

"Not because I feel bad, like you're thinking. Your dad deserved to die. I don't feel guilty for killing him." He said it so matter-of-factly they might as well have been discussing the weather. "Maybe you remind me of someone."

The same way those girls reminded her dad of her?

"Don't think you're my dad, just because you killed him."

She instantly regretted the tone, if not the words, but Will didn't seem bothered. He just kept looking at her with those eyes like he could see right down to the core of her.

"By killing him I saved your life. So I'm responsible for it now."

Abigail's family were gone, her friends probably wouldn't want to touch her with a ten-foot pole, and everybody thought she'd helped her father kill those girls. Even if she wasn't sure she wanted Will's help, she wasn't dumb enough to refuse it.

She'd survived her father. She wasn't going to let him ruin her life now that he was dead.

"Are they going to investigate me?"

"Very possibly."

Abigail found herself gripping Will's wrist so hard she was probably leaving marks. "What would you do?"

"Your dad is gone. Don't let yourself be blamed for what he did. Do you understand?"

_I didn't know anything. It was all him._

"...I think so."

"Good." Will patted her hand before letting go. "Don't trust anyone, especially if they seem to have your best interests in mind."

"Like you?" Abigail said, and put on her most polished smile.

She was strangely pleased when Will laughed. "Smart girl."

The crooked smile on his face dissolved, very briefly, into a pained frown. He rubbed at his temples, reached into his pocket for a bottle and took two pills, dry. For the first time, she noticed how pale he was.

"Are you okay?"

"Just headaches," Will said dismissively. "Think I might be running a fever."

"You should go to the doctor."

It was an off-hand comment; she was oddly gratified to see him pause and give it serious consideration as he stood.

"Maybe I should. Tomorrow, after I've been in to see you."

"You're coming back?" Abigail asked, and had to hide a wince at the way it came out, far too hopeful.

"Probably with a friend," Will said, with a funny emphasis on the word 'friend', and threw something at her. "Here, catch."

She caught it out of the air - one of those ugly, cheap Nokias some of her dad's co-workers had, because they were impossible to break, even for guys who spent their days on construction sites.

Abigail hefted it in her hands, bemused. "Thanks."

"My number's in it. I prefer text to calling, but don't hesitate to call if it's urgent."

There was something odd about his tone -  

"What are you expecting to happen?"

"Jack Crawford isn't an idiot," Will said quietly. "If he thinks you're hiding something, he'll do whatever it takes to get it out of you."

Abigail nodded. "Thank you. I won't mention you were here."

"I didn't ask."

"I'm not an idiot either."

Some part of her was hoping for a visible response to that, but it was like trying to melt stone.

"Take care, Abigail."

 

"So you're not a doctor, a nurse or a psychiatrist."

"Why did they call him the Shrike?"

Abigail wasn't sure why she had asked. Morbid curiosity, probably.

"It's a bird that impales its prey, harvests its organs to eat later," said Freddie Lounds, in a hushed, dramatic voice that aimed for comfort and concern and landed somewhere near cool fascination. "He was very sick."

"Oh my God," Abigail said. Her eyes were very wide, her voice small. She'd practised this look in the mirror, earlier, after Will left. "I had no idea. About any of it."

Scenting blood, Freddie came closer and sat down on the bed. "Your problem right now is convincing the world of that."

"It's the truth. Isn't that the most powerful thing?"

"If only that were the case," Freddie said heavily. "Perception is what's important right now. What you tell the world will define the rest of your life. Let me help you with that."

What she was saying made sense, but she also set off every alarm Abigail had, and Will's words from earlier about trust rang in her head.

Maybe Freddie could still be useful, even if she couldn't be trusted.

"How did they catch him?"

Something complicated flashed across Freddie's face, there and gone before Abigail could identify it. "An FBI agent named Will Graham. The Behavioural Sciences Unit were so stumped they had to get him out of retirement."

Abigail sat up straighter. "Why'd he retire?"

"Because three years ago the BAU majorly screwed up trying to catch a pair of female serial killers. Half the team died." The door opened, and a tall, severe-looking man walked through, followed by Will. Freddie just kept talking, turning to face him. "If you ask me, he did the right thing in leaving."

Will's smile went nowhere near his eyes. "Freddie."

"Agent Graham," Freddie said, matching his neutral tone.

"Abigail, I'm Special Agent Will Graham." Will indicated the tall, severe man. "This is Doctor Hannibal Lecter. Can we talk to you?"

Abigail looked from Will to Freddie, taking in the charged atmosphere between them. "Do you two know each other?"

"Three years ago, I spent a while recovering in hospital after getting stabbed. Ms Lounds sneaked in, took some pictures of me half-naked and unconscious and published them on her website."

Will said it like he was reading from a newspaper, not telling a story about his own violation. Behind him, Doctor Lecter's stern face lapsed into honest amusement for a too-short moment.

Freddie only smiled wider. "It's nothing personal, Agent Graham."

"I know. Would you please excuse us."

It was the most polite way Abigail had ever heard of ordering someone out of the room. Freddie knew it, too. She stood to leave, only pausing to offer a card in Abigail's general direction.

"If you want to talk, Abigail - "

Will held out his hand to Freddie. Whatever look passed between them made Doctor Lecter's mouth twitch, almost imperceptibly.

After a long, frozen pause, she gave him the card.

As soon as the door closed behind Freddie, Will slumped, tension sapping out of his entire body. Maybe Abigail wouldn't have noticed it if they hadn't already met, but the contrast made it easy.

"Do you remember us, Abigail?" Will's eyes were amused, inviting her to share the joke.

She remembered, now, in snatches the unshakable calm of Doctor Lecter's face, so still it seemed like a mask as he loomed over her, his soothing voice, and his firm and careful hands.

That man was nothing like the one looking at her now with solicitous kindness.

"You saved my life," she said.

"You've been in bed for days, Abigail. Why don't we have a walk." 

 

"I'm going to be messed up, aren't I? I'm worried about nightmares."

 

"We'll help you with the nightmares," Hannibal said. "Dreams are your mind's way of trying to process what happened to you. They can be a healthy outlet." 

Caught by the cadences of his voice, Abigail nodded. Hannibal had been right - it felt good to be reminded that there was a world outside her hospital room. She almost felt like a person again, instead of a gaping wound.

"There's no such thing as getting used to what you experienced," Will said as he sat down next to her. "But it does recede into the background eventually."

Something told her he was speaking from personal experience. "Do you have bad dreams?"

"Yes. Sometimes."

"About what?"

"What happened to my father," Will said, so softly she could barely hear him, and Doctor Lecter had to lean in. "What happened with those killers Freddie told you about."

"What happened to your dad?" Abigail asked, on autopilot. Her voice came out hushed.

The corners of Will's mouth turned up, almost unwillingly. "I'll tell you when we know each other a bit better. What else did Freddie say about three years ago?"

"Not much. Did you catch them, in the end?"

"We caught one of them. She died in custody."

"What happened to the other one?"

Will's eyes flickered closed. "I killed her."

"Killing somebody, even if you have to do it, it feels that bad?"

"She had to die for others to live. I'll just have to keep reminding myself of that."

Will smiled tentatively at her and she felt herself returning it.

The silence that followed was not uncomfortable, but there was something about the quality of it, the steady way Will and Hannibal looked at her - the longer it went on, the more Abigail felt the truth spilling out of her.

"I feel...separate. Like I'm seeing the rest of the world through glass. Am I going to end up like my dad?"

"No. You have a choice," Hannibal said gently. His voice was oddly familiar, like she'd heard it before, but without the clarity of a face to face conversation -

_"Hello. May I speak to Mr Hobbs?"_

Her vision blurred and she saw her father in his place. Instead of fear, she felt the ache of longing.

"I want to go home."

 

*

 

The next day, Hannibal came to fetch her from the hospital. He looked mildly taken aback when Alana met them alone.

"I thought Will was going to be accompanying us."

"He's in hospital," Alana said tensely. "Jack's not happy, but there's nothing he can do."

Hannibal was silent for a long moment. "For his headaches, I assume."

"Not just headaches. They're keeping him there until they find out what's wrong. I got in touch with one of my friends in the neurology department and she's going to look at him." 

"Sounds serious. I hope he's going to be all right," Abigail said. She was surprised to find that she meant it.

Alana rewarded her with a wan smile. "Will is very resilient. I'm sure he'll be fine."

 

"Are we going to re-enact the crime?"

 

"You can be the man on the phone," she said brightly, turning to Hannibal and giving him her best nonchalant stare. 

For the briefest of moments, he was taken aback, too surprised to hide it. It was strangely gratifying. Then she heard it - an odd creaking noise, coming from outside the room.

Abigail told herself firmly that she didn't believe in ghosts. "There's somebody here."

She had hardly finished speaking when Hannibal disappeared through the doorway. He reappeared moments later dragging the intruder by the arm even as Alana stood to place herself in front of Abigail.

The man in question was stout, maybe in his 40s, balding, beads of sweat already starting to break out on his forehead. His greedy eyes never left her.

"Hello, Miss Hobbs. Clint H. Johnson, freelance journalist. I'd offer you my card but, uh - "

"You should really leave," said Hannibal, very coldly, and did something that made Johnson squirm, but it wasn't enough to stop him talking at Abigail.

"I just want to ask you a few questions. No harm in that, is there? Come on, it's a free country!"

"You're trespassing on private property," Alana said, enunciating each word until she was nearly shouting. Her eyes were blazing, her colour high. "Hannibal?"

Hannibal nodded. "Mr Johnson is leaving. Now."

Johnson was not a small man, but somehow Hannibal was able to manhandle him with apparent ease. Even as he was being thrown out, he kept on shouting questions at Abigail in an increasingly shrill voice.

"Did you know you were a cannibal? What would you say to the families of the victims? Were you a part of it? Abigail! The public deserve answers!"

Abigail had to fight the urge to cover her ears like a child.

At that point, she thought the worst was over.

 

*

 

Later, as Abigail sat curled up in what had been her father's favourite armchair, fighting back tears and nausea and trying to find any scraps of her self to hang on to, her hand felt the solid lump of that ugly Nokia in her coat pocket. Will's words came rushing back. 

He picked up on the third ring.

"Abigail? Is everything all right?"

"No."

She reached for more, but it was as if she'd forgotten how to make her throat work.

"Tell me what happened."

His calmness infected her and made it possible to find words. Once she began, they became an unstoppable torrent. "I'm at home. They've cleaned it up. All the blood's gone. My dad fed those girls to me. There are reporters everywhere. _There's someone still out there_ and they killed Marissa - "

"Are you hurt?" Will said sharply.

"No. She was d-displayed in my dad's cabin, like that last girl, the one in the field."

Will exhaled slowly. "I'm sorry you had to see that. Do they have a suspect?"

"I think so. There was a man, a reporter - he broke into my house. Hannibal and Alana kicked him out. Then he came up to us when I was talking to Marissa and she - she yelled at him and threw rocks and scared him off. He must have followed her and - "

Abigail took great gasps of air until she could breathe again, and told herself she was imagining the clinging smell of blood.

Will's voice sounded like it was coming from very far away. "Abigail? Abigail? All right, listen to me. Where are you now?"

"Back at home. I'm supposed to be packing."

"Don't be alone. As soon as you hang up, go find Doctor Lecter and Doctor Bloom. Don't go anywhere without one of them. Preferably both."

"Why?"

"I'm glad you asked. Always ask why." She could hear the smile in his voice. "Because it's safer. And you'll have an alibi, if anything happens. Go now."

Abigail clutched the phone like it was a lifeline. "Thank you."

"Go!"

 

*

 

She didn't need to explain it to Alana. All it took was "I don't want to be alone right now," and her genuine fear did the rest. 

"Of course," Alana said softly. "I'll help you pack."

The company helped calm Abigail down, too. She couldn't very well lose it with an audience, especially when it was her psychiatrist, who already thought she needed fixing.

The worst part of it was that she probably did.

She jumped at any kind of noise, and nearly startled out of her skin when Alana touched her arm.

"Sorry."

Alana looked at her so sorrowfully it made Abigail miss the guarded suspicion of before. "No, I shouldn't have done that."

They both stilled at the sound of heavy breathing.

"Please. I'm not here to hurt you."

Abigail looked up to see Johnson looming in the doorway. How had she never realised what a giant he was until now?

"You...you need to listen to me," he panted as he lurched toward her.

Abigail told herself to run, to back away, grab something. Her muscles wouldn't work. All she could see was Marissa, gutted like an animal in her dad's cabin.

The spell was only broken when Alana shoved herself in front of her. "What are you doing here? Get away from her!"

For a moment, all Abigail could see was her mother, right before her dad began hacking at her throat. Then Johnson stopped advancing. He swayed like a demented man, sweating with desperation.

"I didn't kill that girl. You have to listen to me. I'd never - "

Alana didn't budge. "Get. Out. Turn yourself in while you still have the chance."

Abigail's hand closed around the handle of the kitchen knife in the open evidence box as Johnson lurched forward again.

"I can't. I didn't do it. I was framed. I - I can't go to jail!"

His hand reached for Alana's shoulder. Abigail started forward with the knife, but she was too slow. Alana grabbed the table lamp and swung it; it hit Johnson so hard that he staggered. The head of the lamp came away damp with blood.

Johnson scrambled back and away, looking crazed. His footsteps faded into the night.

Abigail inched forward slowly, knife held in front of her, and looked both directions at the doorway. "I - I think he's gone."

"We'd better tell local PD to be on the lookout," Alana said. She dropped the lamp and pulled Abigail in, her lips thinning at Abigail's instinctive flinch. "Are you okay?"

_No._

She still couldn't let go of the knife.

"I'm fine."

 

*

 

Will was staying at a nice hospital. It took Abigail a fair bit of smiling and playing the worried daughter to get his room number, all the while a voice in the back of her head wondered what the hell she was doing, sneaking out of her secure hospital room while Johnson was still out there.

His room was nice, too. when she let herself in - big and probably sunny during the day. Will lay in bed, connected up to an IV and a whole lot of monitors. He looked pale and tired in the lamp light, but he raised his head and smiled at her.

"This is a surprise. I don't think you're allowed out."

Despite the words, he seemed amused rather than disapproving.

Abigail pulled a chair up to the side of the bed and dropped down into it. "They figure out what's wrong with you yet?"

"Not yet. Dr Bloom's neurologist friend is coming to see me tomorrow, though, so that might change."

"Good."

Will managed a fainter version of his crooked smile. "Why are you here, Abigail?"

"Agent Crawford told me they've got cops out looking for that journalist," Abigail said, all in a rush.

"That's good."

"They're saying he killed Marissa."

Will raised his eyebrows. "Really. Do you think he did it?"

"There's - evidence."

"I'm not asking the evidence, I'm asking you."

The look in his eyes was infinitely gentle; it belied his brisk tone and was somehow more chilling.

"I - I don't know. I wasn't thinking about it then, but he was scared when he attacked us." Her voice was very small. "They're not going to find him, are they?"

"What makes you say that?"

"Just - a gut feeling," she whispered.

"More than a feeling," Will said softly. "You know, don't you. Who was the man on the phone, Abigail?"

"I - I don't - "

Will held out his hand and she grasped it, probably tight enough to hurt. He smiled and closed his eyes.

"It's okay. You don't have to tell me. You don't have to say anything."

 

*

 

That night, Abigail's nightmare changed - the same hunting trip, the same deer, but when she turned her head to face the one teaching her, it wasn't the intent eyes of her father staring back.

Will smiled and put his hand on her shoulder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the next chapter: Hannibal visits Will in hospital.


	5. Hannibal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal visits Will in hospital.

There was nothing remarkable about Will Graham in repose. He did not stir as Hannibal loomed over his hospital bed and imagined sawing off the top of his skull and removing the prefrontal lobe. He could close his eyes and taste the delicate sweetness of the flesh. Lightly sauteed, it would all but melt on the tongue.

And the mystery would be lost forever. Even Hannibal could not divine all of a man's secrets by taste alone.

He turned away and began setting the table.

"Smells delicious."

Hannibal stilled, and covered the slip by straightening the cutlery. It was rare indeed that he didn't feel himself being watched. Will's gaze had no weight, and yet when he turned to meet it, the cool blue eyes were examining him like one would a particularly interesting cadaver, as if he had heard Hannibal's brief wish to understand him through consumption.

"Silkie chicken in a broth. A black boned bird prized in China for its medicinal value since the 7th century. With wolfberries, ginseng, ginger, red dates and star anise."

"You made me chicken soup," Will said, amused, almost teasing, and sat up. The flimsy hospital sheet slid down to reveal a jagged, ugly scar on his shoulder. It looked like an old knife wound. "I'm touched. I think."

"I was concerned. Encephalitis can be difficult to diagnose. You were fortunate that it was recognised so early."

"That's what I've been told."

"Doctor Sakamoto informed me that you were the one who suggested neurological causes."

Will had insisted, politely and firmly, on an MRI, or so Tomoe Sakamoto had said, with the tolerant, indulgent air she often put on when talking about wilful young men.

_"He was a bit alarmed, of course, when I told him what was wrong. Lasted all of five minutes. Then he had so many questions. Good ones, too. I don't think I've seen that kind of curiosity since - well, since you, Hannibal."_

"I've had headaches off and on for a while now, then fever. Weird dreams. Auditory and visual hallucinations. Thought I'd go and get it checked out, since my new job requires me to handle firearms." This last said with an amused quirk of the mouth, asking him to share the joke.

"You were convinced there was a physical cause."

Will paused, halfway through putting on hospital slippers, his face shadowed by the fading light. "I know exactly what goes on in my mind, Doctor."

The long, clear note of a struck bell rang through the back of Hannibal's head. He recognised it as alarm, acute but directionless. There was no rational cause for his mind to latch onto.

His instincts were seldom wrong.

"Not many in your field can say the same."

"Career hazard. Look at this Shrike stuff." Will waved a hand at the stack of case files Hannibal had moved to make way for the table settings. "Jack sent me the files. Flowers, too, and a get well card. Made me all paranoid that whatever I had was terminal and nobody thought to tell me."

Hannibal returned his amused glance, sharing the joke. "As your psychiatrist, I have to question the wisdom of working in your current condition."

"Nice of you to worry. I'm fine." Will took a careful sip of the soup. "This tastes as good as it smells. I don't quite have the vocabulary to do it justice, though."

"Sometimes the traditional recipes have been preserved intact for a reason," Hannibal demurred.

"Just take the compliment," Will said mildly. "You were the one who found Marissa Schuur?"

"Abigail did."

Will's face tightened with worry. "Did she seem all right?"

"I think you underestimate her. She has great depth and resilience, and an aptitude for the psychological."

"I think for someone in her position a little of the FBI goes a long way."

Did he suspect her true role in her father's work? It seemed unlikely, given their limited interaction to date. If Will had voiced even the shadow of a doubt to Jack Crawford, then there would have been no need for their disastrous Minnesota fishing expedition. Best to proceed with care.

"You may be right. Have you spoken to Jack about Marissa Schuur?"

"Not yet. I wanted to talk to you first."

"I'm afraid I will have little to add, if you've already read the file."

Will set his spoon down and ran a hand through his hair to rest on top of the photo pinned to the front of the file. "This is like the last one. Snyder. He knew exactly how to mount the body. Wound patterns are almost identical. The same design, same humiliation."

"Do you think Johnson killed both of them?"

Will snorted. "For the story? Unlikely."

"So there's a copycat still out there."

"I didn't say the same person killed both Schuur and Snyder."

Hannibal found himself leaning forward, as if drawn by an invisible force. "You said they were alike."

"But not exactly the same. It's like...a copy of a copy."

"A double forgery."

"No. Schuur's killer wanted us to know he was different. There's a guy who did perfect art forgeries - "

"Elmyr de Hory. He would occasionally put the signatures in upside down."

"Of course you'd know who I meant. That's exactly it." Will's gaze was on the case file, but his true focus was elsewhere; his eyes were glazed. "Snyder's killer was looking for something. Schuur's was...peacocking."  

A slow smile crept its way onto Hannibal's face, inexorable and not entirely within his control. There was a distinct pleasure in being seen so clearly.

"Fascinating."

"That's not what people usually say," Will said, in the same tone someone else might use for an endearment.  

A comfortable silence descended as they turned their attention back to the soup. Hannibal felt a singular warmth watching Will consume his food with slow, deliberate appreciation and singular focus. The pleasure was out of all proportion to the act itself. No dinner party he'd ever thrown, however lavish and elaborate and cruelly ironic, compared.

Will raised his head and their gazes met; Hannibal looked away, a thrill lacing through him at having been caught.

It was all novel and rather unsettling.

"Did Jack ask you to consult on his new case?"

"The lost boys? He told me a bit about it. They have a few leads," Will said vaguely. Evasive, and clumsily so. Rather unlike him. Perhaps something about the case struck a personal chord.

"Alana Bloom has a fascinating theory about a central authority figure, driving these children to kill."

"The creation of a new family. Yes. That's a good working hypothesis, anyway. I don't…"

Will trailed off and looked away, fixing his eyes on the darkening horizon outside.

"Something about this case unsettles you. Is it the idea of children being driven to kill?"

Wrong, of course. Nothing unsettled Will Graham about murder. But sometimes a deliberately misleading guess was the best way to tease out the truth.

"No. No, it's not that. There's something so foreign about family. Like an ill-fitting suit. Never connected to the concept."

Hannibal didn't even try to resist the impulse. "Tell me about your family."

"Difficult to know where to start. I never knew my mother. What about you?"

"Both my parents died when I was very young. The proverbial orphan until I was adopted by my Uncle Robertas when I was 16."

Will smiled. "Then we have that in common. Us and Abigail."

Whether he had anything else in common with Abigail Hobbs remained to be seen. Hannibal saw the potential for growth and renewal in her; in him, he was still uncertain exactly what it was that had caught his attention.

"You referred to an incident with your father."

"He disappeared when I was still a kid," Will said quietly.

"Disappeared?"

"Murdered. They never found a body, though. If you're about to suggest I became a cop because of him - "

"I wouldn't dare," Hannibal said, smiling. "Did you?"

"No. Bounced around foster homes for awhile. Found a good one eventually."

He would have been a quiet child. Appealingly wide-eyed but contained and unreachable in his solitude. Difficult to connect to.

"But you were already fully formed, an outsider. More of a guest and observer than a member."

"Something like that," Will shrugged. "Now I live alone with an army of dogs. My own version of family."

"It seems to suit you."

Will stared at him for a long, still moment, evaluating, before he seemed to make his mind up. "You could come visit me. I don't get visitors very much, living in the middle of nowhere."

"What do you do there?"

"I fish, and I hunt. Walk the dogs. It's nice. Quiet."

It was a completely different lifestyle to his own, and yet Hannibal recognised something in Will's description - a mastery of and comfort in his environment that was familiar to him.

"You don't seem to crave much human companionship."

"It's a two-way street. I don't care for shallow relationships, and for some reason not many people want to bother with a guy who spends all his free time out in the sticks with a pack of dogs."

"Alana Bloom does."

"We met when I was a bit more social. These days, no one makes the effort. Present company excepted."

Will's gaze was warm. His hand twitched briefly where it lay on the table, a hair's breath from Hannibal's, as if he wanted to reach out and then thought better of it.

"I would have been most offended if you suggested otherwise."

 

*

 

Hannibal left Will's hospital room with an unsettling buzzing in the back of his head, a heady combination of subconscious, instinctual alarm and satisfaction. It was so distracting that he almost failed to notice the policewoman's approach until she was right in front of him.

"Oh! Excuse me. I'm looking for Will Graham."

"May I ask who's asking?"

She was tall and well-built, her skin a warm brown, with an open, friendly face. "I'm Molly Martinez. Will's sister. You must be Doctor Lecter."

"Guilty as charged."

She grinned at his raised eyebrow. "Will might have mentioned you on the phone. Is he there?"

"They've taken him for tests."

"I'll wait. Buy you a coffee?"

With an effort, Hannibal made sure his disgust at the mere idea of hospital coffee didn't colour his face or his voice. "I'm afraid I have to decline your kind offer."

"Aww, busted. I just wanted to grill you. Will hardly ever mentions any friends."

"I'm not adverse to being grilled," Hannibal said wryly.

"Great. Let's sit down."

They settled on comfortable couches just around the corner from Will's room, Molly glancing around with open curiosity and no little amusement.

"This place is nice. Guess there are some benefits to being FBI."

"Did you work with Will in New Orleans?"

"Kind of. We weren't on the same squad. He followed me into the force, actually. I've never really understood why." Molly shook her head, clearly torn between pride and self-deprecation. "He's very bright - I thought maybe medical school - but he never even considered anything else."

Will had never stuck Hannibal as someone with a strong affinity for law enforcement. The family connection was at least a partial explanation.

"He must have been an exceptional detective."

"They'd dump all the hard homicide cases on him." Molly grinned. "It was nice. Like having a king snake under the house to take care of the moccasins. Those guys would never admit it, but they'd love him back."

"Would you?"

"He wasn't getting much out of being there, by the end. I can't say the FBI is good for him, but I know he's good for it."

Hannibal nodded. "That would be my impression as well."

"Will knows how to take care of himself. I just wish he had more of a support system out here."

"I am committed to his mental wellbeing as a professional."

Molly's bright dark eyes bore into his with the same intensity as Will's for a long moment before a wide, guileless smile took over her face once more.

"And here you are visiting him in hospital with food. No, it's great. It's not easy to be his friend. But I think you might have what it takes."

 

*

 

In the depths of Hannibal's memory palace, the bell kept ringing its long, clear note.

Hannibal followed it through well-lit foyers paved with marble to the newly built rooms dedicated to the mementos of the Shrike case. There was Snyder in that field, pecked by crows; there was Schuur hanging in Hobbs' cabin; Mrs Hobbs, throat cut and bleeding out, with Will Graham crouched over her, his face like marble.

The bell rang again. Will raised his head, and Hannibal saw the look in his eyes.

 

_"But not exactly the same. It's like...a copy of a copy."_

" _A double forgery."_

" _No. Schuur's killer wanted us to know he was different. There's a guy who did perfect art forgeries - "_

" _Elmyr de Hory. He would occasionally put the signatures in upside down."_

" _Of course you'd know who I meant. That's exactly it." Will's gaze was on the case file, but his true focus was elsewhere; his eyes were glazed. "Snyder's killer was looking for something. Schuur's was...peacocking."_

 

The revelation pierced him like the cut of a thin blade.

Will Graham didn't have to guess. He knew. He read crime scenes like he could hear the screams smeared on the air and see every step the killer took - because he could. His mind was a remarkable thing, a jewel, a psychiatrist's dream.

No wonder he kept it hidden.

Hannibal paced the length of his study, agitated, moved by the urge to create for this new, unique, _appreciative_ audience. It was dangerous to reveal more of himself, to get closer, especially now that he knew that Will was capable of seeing it.

Capable of seeing him.

Retreat was not an option. He'd just have to turn danger into opportunity.

 

 

(to be continued)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dialogue taken from 1x03 (Potage), 1x04 (Ceuf), 1x12 (Releves) and Red Dragon by Thomas Harris.
> 
> In the next chapter: Alana and Abigail visit Will in Wolf Trap.

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. This is unapologetically self-indulgent. Updates whenever I can swing them.
> 
> 2\. All dialogue from the show checked against either the script or the aired version.
> 
> 3\. All feedback gratefully received, as always.


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